The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(39)
“Ah. No need to explain further. They are a breed apart.” LA is swimming with wannabes, almost-wases, and has-beens. Neck-deep. Can’t throw a rock without hitting one.
He smirks. “She wanted to live in the city and constantly be out for exposure. When I sold my place in LA and moved out here, she didn’t like having to drive in for auditions or shopping. She was wonderful and vibrant and fun. Cliché as it sounds, she was like an exotic flower. She didn’t fit in the desert, which is where I fit.”
My mind goes directly to his lush courtyard full of exotic-looking vegetation. Did he plant them just for her? An oasis for his love? I’m admittedly a little jealous of said exotic flower, but I push it down. I get what he’s saying. It resonates deeply, like a chord struck in me. “Dreams have to match up. Or at least be compatible side by side.” I’m not sure what else to say, but it seems to be enough.
He nods. “How about you? Ever married?”
“God no.” I snort. Then I feel bad. He’s told me about his; I can at least return the favor. “I was almost engaged once when I was too young—my first year of law school. He didn’t ‘get’ me, and I had the good sense to end it before we made each other miserable. There hasn’t been time after that. Or anyone who seems pleasant enough to deal with for a lifetime.”
There haven’t been a pair of shoes that could sit next to mine in a doorway for more than a few months. Tom worked for my dad while I was in law school. My first real love, forever trying to change me. The night he asked me to marry him—two kids in love who had no idea what they wanted in the world—he told me that if I said yes, I “wouldn’t have to write those comics anymore—not work at all when we had kids.” It was my moment of reckoning, looking at a future just like my parents’. No fun, no color, no passion, no room to be crazy into geek fandoms. Tied down. Boring. Typical. I didn’t want to be typical. I wanted to be a superhero. I told him no thank you, dropped out of school, colored my hair the next day, and never looked back, even after my parents told me they wouldn’t give me another dime if I didn’t finish law school.
Enter the Hurtling Turd, my new crew, and the job at Genius I landed after three years of freelance writing that had finally made my dream come true. But here I am thinking that just maybe something has been missing. Maybe I like how my shoes look next to Matteo’s. He intrigues me, makes me feel a way I haven’t before in my life. Longing for stability. For permanence. For partnership, where before I was a content party of one. Pretty heavy stuff.
“I’ve been thinking about the case,” I say, not taking my eyes from his face. “And I read some of my old comics last night looking for the White Rabbit.” I want to see how crazy he thinks I am away from the crime scene and away from his partner.
No sign of a smirk. “And?”
“I can’t help but feel like this bust is more than what it seems on the surface. Everything has lined up with the comic books, maybe too well. This person, the Golden Arrow. Why not just call the police, report drug activity, and call it a night? It’s like they’re trying to indicate that they’re following a certain person or story line. It’s like trying to read tarot from a normal deck of playing cards—like I’m looking for something that isn’t there. But. My gut says it’s worth following the story, not just the crimes. The connection. The presence of a drug war, then and now. The heroin in a warehouse. It’s going to sound crazy, but I’m a writer, and I draw off of real life all the time. What if Casey Senior wrote about a real drug ring? And somehow the Golden Arrow figured it out?”
Silence.
“But why would the crimes repeat themselves if they already happened thirty years ago?” Matteo takes another sip of coffee and mulls over his next words before speaking. “Right before Casey Senior died, there was a huge bust of the biggest heroin rings in the city. The streets were cleaned up. I’m not saying you’re wrong. It’s just how would we ever go about proving it’s all related?”
I let out a breath. His willingness to listen frees up my mind to start piecing story threads together. That bust he’s talking about—the city was rid of its most notorious criminals. But maybe someone has survived and had their pickings of a marketplace conveniently cleared of competitors. “In the comic, the next steps are catching smugglers on the boat and chasing the White Rabbit. I think we’d be smart to look at the shipping logs. Stake out the warehouse. Search to see if there are connections to China.”
Matteo nods slowly. “As it stands, I’m set to interrogate the man from the warehouse who had the rabbit on his hoodie. It was painted on. We just need to figure out why, or if he saw the person responsible. If all this is more than coincidence, we’re also possibly looking for a double agent. Maybe that’s why our Golden Arrow can’t come to the police,” Matteo adds.
I give one nod, unwilling to comment. It’s true. If we are following this story to its extent, we are also looking for a dirty cop. I keep thinking this seems designed for . . . well, me. Like the Golden Arrow expects me to put together these clues, and it’s unsettling.
Matteo shrugs. “I’m just glad you stumbled upon me in the coffee shop to help us out. We’d have no clue without you. We’ll call it divine providence until we see a reason to think otherwise. Ready to go?” He drains the rest of his cup, and I follow suit.